


If Only in My Dreams

by SylvanWitch



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Angst Dean Winchester, Gen, Pre-Series, Stanford-Era, holiday-related
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-25
Updated: 2012-12-25
Packaged: 2017-11-22 09:02:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,022
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/608103
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SylvanWitch/pseuds/SylvanWitch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean's learned his lesson about calling Sam on Christmas.</p>
            </blockquote>





	If Only in My Dreams

**Author's Note:**

> Uh, Merry Christmas?

It’s cold in Minnesota in December.

 

This is not a question up for dispute.  Dean’s spent a year of days hunting bumps in the night through shadow-slashed wastes of snow, where the sharp, broken branches of evergreens signal the passage of a monster and the only star in the night sky is a jet flying too high to notice all the hell it's passing over.

 

The distant jingling isn’t a family out for a sleigh ride but the frantic huff-and-run of big dogs along a fence-line, sensing something bigger than themselves passing in the otherwise silent night.

 

A gift is getting the beast before it gets him.  The nearest he gets to a hearth is when the Impala finally warms up enough to blow warm breath against his frost-stung cheeks.  His socks have holes at heel and toe, not one whole enough to hold a single trinket.

 

Red blood smears the collar of his white tee-shirt, and an irritating itching at his neckline proves to be a sprig of fir tree caught in his hair.

 

Ho-fucking-ho.

 

Times like these, Dean likes to picture his brother tucked up somewhere cozy and warm, a cool California breeze ruffling his too-long hair, some pretty thing on his arm or in his bed.

 

If it bothers him that Sam’s not with him on Christmas, Dean tries to imagine what that would be like, but he can no longer conjure an image of his brother by his side, out of breath, hair a tangled mess, cheeks stained with effort, blood spattering his own clothes.

 

No, the other vision is better.  Dean tells himself that often.

 

The first Christmas they were apart, Dean called Sam, figuring normal was family calling you on a major holiday to say, “Hey.”

 

But the conversation had been awkward (on Dean’s part) and censored (on Sam’s), and the sounds of a party in the background, carols sung in drunken, off-key, manic glee, had made it quite clear that Dean’s idea of normal was a wash.

 

“Merry Christmas, Sammy,” he’d said, and he’d been so fucking grateful when Sam hadn’t corrected the diminutive before replying, “You, too, Dean,” in a low voice meant to disguise the nature of the conversation from people Dean didn’t know and would probably never meet.

 

So this year, Dean’s minding the lesson he learned, listening to scrambled porn cranked all the way up from the cheapskates next door, who are banging away in counter-time to the warped moans and stuttering grunts from the soundtrack.

 

He thinks about getting drunk, but he hasn’t got the energy to scare up what’s left of the last bottle of Jack he’d bought.  He thinks about ordering pizza, but he can’t remember if he’s got enough for gas tomorrow, and he’s pretty sure he maxed his last credit card buying somebody’s heirloom bracelet at the pawn shop in town to melt it down for bullets.

 

He thinks about calling Dad and then thinks again.  John and Jack are never better friends than on major family holidays.

 

He’s far enough gone in exhaustion and half-remembered Christmases past that he doesn’t register his phone on the first or second ring, only the third drawing him from a reverie of beer can wreaths and crappy presents bought with a five finger discount.

 

“Yeah,” he answers, expecting a job, maybe Bobby giving him a ring to make sure he’s still alive.

 

“Dean?”

 

It’s cut by distance, stretched thin over too many miles, but Dean would recognize his brother’s voice if Sam were calling him from hell itself.

 

“Hey, Sam,” he says, sitting up and working himself back to lean against the wall, pillow bunched up in the small of his back.  He doesn’t even notice.

 

“Hey.  I, uh…just wanted to see how you’ve been.  You know, wish you a merry Christmas and…”  Sam’s voice falls off into a void occupied by all of the things they never say out loud.

 

“I’m good, Sam.  Good.  How’re you?”

 

“Good, man.  You know, classes are tough and, uh, I don’t… .  But it’s good.  Things are good.  I’ve…uh…met someone.”

 

Dean pauses long enough to figure out what he’s supposed to say.  Should he ask about her?  Or him?  Should he tease Sam?  Time was Dean would’ve known how to respond.  Now he just plays it safe:  “That’s great, Sammy.  I’m really happy for you.”

 

Next door, the couple reaches a rousing climax just as some joker cruises the motel parking lot with his stereo blaring Bruce’s version of “Santa Claus Is Coming to Town.”  For a half-second, Dean wishes he were someplace quiet and clean, with a nice girl who’d let him keep her warm all through the soft, innocent night.

 

“Well, hey, I’ve gotta—,” Sam says, hesitating, the silence growing between them, waiting to eat up anything they might try to say.

 

“Sure, sure.  You’ve probably got a party or something, your girl waiting for you.  Hope you have a good one, Sammy.  Merry Christmas.”

 

“Merry Christmas to you, too, Dean.”

 

“Take it easy,” Dean says, about to end the call, when Sam blurts, “You could come to visit sometime, Dean.  Maybe meet her.”

 

Something warm and heavy blossoms in his chest, and Dean struggles against the weight to take in a breath to answer.

 

“Maybe, Sam.  If I catch a case out your way.  I’ll call you.”

 

“Okay,” Sam answers, sounding uncertain, far away, like he doesn’t believe he’ll ever see Dean.  “Okay,” he says again by way of an awkward close.

 

“Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do,” Dean manages.  It’s weak, but it’s the best he can do.

 

“Take care, Dean,” Sam says, signing off.

 

For a long moment, Dean watches the display marking the time the call ended, his brother’s number and name.  Then he closes the phone and his eyes, slides down in the bed, and lets himself drift away.

 

If he dreams of blue skies and sunny smiles, of blonde girls in bikinis and his brother beside him, lean and tan, a beer in one hand and his other slapping Dean’s shoulder, well, who would he tell about it the next day anyway?


End file.
